


Five Times Caine Wise Was a Good Dog (and One Time He Wasn't)

by HannaGoesUp



Series: Pray Tell Me Sir (Whose Dog Are You?) [1]
Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Balem Abrasax being a bastard, Community: jakink, Forced Exhibitionism, Forced Orgasm, Forced blowjobs, Humiliation, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Non-consensual masturbation, Pre-Canon, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Slavery, Torture, Violence, abusive D/s dynamics, abusive Pack dynamics, easily the filthiest thing I'll ever write jfc, just pretty much all kinds of non-con, mindfuckery, non-consensual medical procedure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:54:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3453116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannaGoesUp/pseuds/HannaGoesUp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set pre-canon. Balem Abrasax has the money to buy anything he wants, even a Legionnaire. Trapped in service to Balem's increasingly abusive appetites, Caine struggles to keep his humanity and his sanity. </p><p>Written for a prompt at jakink on dreamwidth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to a prompt at jakink.dreamwidth.org : There's been speculation going around that Balem is the person Caine attacked pre-movie, and that Balem either suffers lasting effects from the damage (all the breathy gasping speech) or affects it like a status symbol (space turtlenecks). Either way, I want a backstory about Balem keeping Caine as a pet/sex-slave during his young military days; lots of dub/non-con D/s and terrible BDSM etiquette. The attack is prompted by Caine finally being unable to take the humiliation and stress and abuse anymore (maybe he uses the Queen's assassination as an excuse?). 
> 
> \+ for Caine being naturally asexual, even sex-repulsed  
> ++ for Balem using all kinds of emotionally manipulative tactics re: packs and alphas

Caine is freshly eighteen when he arrives in the court of Balem Abrasax. Officially he is there as a gesture of goodwill between the Entitled one and the Legion -- proof the heir has nothing to hide from the military, proof the military will do its utmost to protect the heir, even unto providing him a bodyguard from their own ranks. Unofficially, Caine knows, he is there as property. Money like Balem Abrasax's money buys whatever it wants, from whomever it wants, even the Legion. If Abrasax wants a Legionnaire, he will have one. 

Officially, it is an honor; officially, he should be grateful to be counted valuable enough to be worthy of service in a house as illustrious as that of Balem Abrasax. But Caine isn't stupid. He knows he's here because, of the available candidates, he will represent the least financial loss to the Legion if anything should happen to him. 

He knows, too, that it's more than likely something will. 

But he's a Legionnaire, however ill-born and badly-bred, and so he does his best not to let his knowledge affect his behavior when he is shown to Balem Abrasax's audience chamber. He stands at attention, does not make eye contact with his new employer, does not speak before he is spoken to. Caine is well-trained for what he is. 

Balem is long and lithe and deceptively languorous in his movements; he makes all the fine hairs along Caine's back and neck stand up on end. The wolf in him knows a predator when he sees and smells one, and only a lifetime's training keeps him from bristling in challenge when Balem Abrasax rises from his throne and steps right up into Caine's personal space. His smell is dry, astringent, almost medical; he smells like danger and cruelty. Caine doesn't flinch, though he blinks more rapidly. Balem smiles.

"Kneel." 

". . . Your Highness?" It's a mistake, Caine knows it before the words are out, and it sparks fury into Abrasax's eyes. His face twists in raw violence, his voice is a shriek with the promise of pain behind it.

_"Kneel to me!"_

Caine does it, while the wolf within him bristles and growls at the affront. The soldier holds it back, even while Abrasax moves closer to him and draws his robes apart with long-fingered hands . . .

Caine's stomach clenches. He isn't stupid; he understands what is happening even before Balem loosens his underclothing and withdraws his cock. The wolf is no longer bristling but flinching, and perhaps the man does, too, because Balem's smile grows sharper, more cruel and more self-satisfied. 

"You know what to do, don't you." It is not a question. It is a command.

Caine closes his eyes, and one of those long white hands cuffs him roughly, like a disobedient cur. "No, that won't do at all. Keep them open." 

He swallows convulsively and forces himself to open his eyes. To lean forward. To open his mouth. 

Caine has orders. He is here to obey Balem Abrasax. To serve Balem Abrasax, whose hand grips Caine's hair roughly and forces him forward until his mouth is stuffed full of the Entitled's rapidly stiffening erection. There is a metallic taste in the back of Caine's throat and it's difficult to breathe. 

This isn't the first time he's done this, he's an eighteen-year-old soldier after all, but he's done just enough of it to know he never wanted to do it again.

And because Caine isn't stupid, he suddenly knows that is exactly why he's here. 

The thought makes him choke, or maybe it's the head of Balem's cock slamming into the back of his throat that does it. Caine wants to vomit. He wants to cry. He wants, badly, to bite down and end this before it goes any further. 

But he doesn't. He moves his tongue, his jaw, he keeps his eyes open and tries to breathe through his nose as the hand at the back of his head forces him roughly to take Balem's cock deeper and deeper. Balem's nails dig into his scalp and his hips buck as he fucks Caine's mouth, roughly and painfully. 

It takes forever before he finally comes with a shudder, both hands forcing Caine's head forward as his seed spurts into the back of the splice's throat. Caine chokes and sputters, trying with a futile instinct to pull away, to get the sickening taste out of his mouth. 

"No, no." The expression on Balem's face is one of sublime cruelty, and he still has Caine's head in a grip like iron, his cock softening in Caine's mouth. "Good pets swallow what they're given." 

Caine's stomach churns. This is hell. The Legion has sold him into hell. 

"Well?" The hands tighten in his hair and Balem makes a very faint noise that promises much, much worse to come if Caine doesn't do what he's told. 

Caine takes a shuddering breath through his nose and swallows obediently. Like a good soldier.

Like a good dog.


	2. Chapter 2

He learns, too quickly, that his situation is even more bleak than he feared after his first encounter with Balem Abrasax. He is fed, clothed, allowed to sleep, allowed to clean himself only at the Entitled's pleasure, which may be withdrawn at any time. He is never to be addressed by name, and the household staff will speak to him only when strictly necessary. 

He is a possession, a _thing_ to be fucked whenever, wherever, and however Balem Abrasax desires -- and Balem Abrasax does desire, violently and frequently. It leaves Caine feeling sick and soiled, all the more so because he knows his unwillingness only serves to increase Balem's pleasure in using him. 

At first, Caine still fights it -- as best he can without violating his orders, at least. He draws back or stiffens when Balem Abrasax touches him. He closes his eyes when he is ordered to his knees. He does not do anything he is not directly commanded to do. 

None of it helps, of course. Balem fucks him anyway, and makes certain to punish him for every minor defiance. Caine isn't stupid; he knows resisting, expressing his revulsion, will not earn him anything but pain. He's only doing it because he has to, because his nature will not let him do otherwise. He is a lycantant and a Legionnaire, he can't surrender without some kind of fight.

He's been trained for hostile situations, of course he has, his whole brief life has been dedicated to becoming the best soldier a bargain-bin splice can hope to be. He's been trained to stand firm, to resist the enemy at any possible turn, to keep himself together until he can find a way out. But this is not training; this is not an exercise he knows will eventually end, if he can just endure it. This isn't even a case of his being held prisoner by the enemy; he's here under _orders_. Nobody will be coming to retrieve him because he is supposed to be here. 

Because, most likely, the superiors who sent him here knew exactly what would happen to him.

That is the brutal, demoralizing reality, and as the weeks in this hell drag on, Caine can feel his ability to cope start to splinter. Keeping the wolf in him on its leash becomes more difficult; in the worst moments, when Abrasax's hands are around Caine's throat or his cock is up Caine's ass, Caine can feel himself slipping, losing humanity. 

He starts to dream about going feral, giving in to the animal part of himself, and he wakes up screaming. 

Caine knows if that happens, he will absolutely die here. He's seen what happens to feral splices who harm human beings. It's a drawn-out, agonizing, humiliating death, an animal death, and he has been conditioned his whole life to view it as the worst fate someone like him can suffer.

Worse, even, than life as the sex slave of Balem Abrasax. That's what awaits him if he loses control. 

He just isn't sure he'll be able to help himself, if this goes on. He is constantly exhausted, underfed, aching from Balem's violent attentions and disgusted by what is being done to him over and over and over. The discipline required to keep his defiance minor and in line with his orders is growing steadily more difficult to maintain.

And eventually, of course, it slips. 

Abrasax has him bound and bent over a settee when it happens, thrusting into him with sharp, rough movements that hurt -- that are _meant_ to hurt -- and Caine drops his forehead to the stiff brocade beneath him, snarling before he can stop himself. It's an ugly noise, a dangerous animal noise, one that Caine would have been ashamed of himself for making only a month or two ago.

Instantly Balem's hand fists in Caine's hair, yanks his head back, and Abrasax changes the angle of his thrust so that the pain blossoms exponentially. "What was that?" His tone is sharp and predatory, and the nails of his other hand dig into Caine's hip until blood wells up. "Do you have something to _say_ , pet?"

Caine shudders, he is _this close_ to the break, the wolf half of him begs to be let out, to revenge himself on this monster . . .

And he yanks himself back with an act of titanic will, slumping beneath the Entitled. His voice is a harsh, hollow rasp. "No, Your Highness."

" _Master._ " Balem drives himself into Caine with a thrust that sends white agony through the splice's guts. "Say it." 

Oh, suns and stars. "No, Master." Caine chokes out the words, shaking.

Abrasax chuckles. "I thought not." His grip abruptly loosens, his angle of thrust and his pace change again so that the pain recedes, becomes moderately more bearable. The self-satisfaction in his tone is sickening. "Good boy." 

Caine flinches bodily, hating that somewhere deep down inside him some inborn thing flickers with a reaction that is not hate or disgust at those words. He feels sick to his stomach -- he always feels sick to his stomach now -- but he doesn't respond. God, he just wants this to be over, he wants to get away from this moment and curl up somewhere to lick his wounds and marshal his cracking defenses.

Abrasax doesn't let it go, though. His tone turns almost caressing, his movements less brutal than they've been any other time he's forced Caine to endure this. "To be good. That's what something like you wants, isn't it, Caine?"

The sound of his name hits him like a knife to the back; he hasn't been called anything but "pet" and "whore" and "dog" in weeks. And there's a purely physical reaction that is starting to rise now that Balem isn't _hurting_ him. He cringes, hating himself. He can't be this easy to get to, can he? Isn't he better than this?

Balem keeps pressing, slipping his hand beneath Caine's body to encircle his cock. He squeezes . . . gently? "I know what you want." He croons, stroking Caine in time to the thrusting of his hips. "You don't want to be an animal, Caine. You want to belong."

He leans forward, lips brushing Caine's pointed ear. His voice is a whisper, honeyed and intimate, and Caine is sickened and entrapped and rapidly losing physical control of himself. "Belong to me, pet." 

Caine gasps and shudders and comes without warning, spilling semen over the Entitled's hand and the elaborate brocaded settee. He fights back the urge to retch and goes slack in his bonds, panting. Hating himself, hating Balem Abrasax. 

Hating that Abrasax is right, that his only options are dying in agony like an animal, or . . .

His gorge rises and he closes his eyes as Balem pulls out and comes in hot spurts across his back and hips. Marking him. 

Caine can hear the smirk in Balem's voice as he strokes the splice's aching shoulders. 

"Good boy."


	3. Chapter 3

Things only get worse the longer Caine stays in the alcazar of Balem Abrasax. He's still subjected to a near-constant schedule of beatings and rape, still treated like an object and forced into ever more degrading positions. But he loses the nominal privacy of the bare concrete cell in which he was originally kept when Balem wasn't actively abusing him. Instead, Abrasax seems to have decided to amuse himself by following through on his talk of _pets_ and _belonging_. He leads Caine around on a golden chain, feeds him from a dish on the floor at his table, forces him to kneel at his side like a terrier while he conducts business and audiences and to sleep on the floor at the foot of his bed.

It's humiliating on a level Caine was never prepared for -- even a half-albino runt splice with no Pack, the lowest of the low, had more dignity than he does as Balem Abrasax's dog. His shame is a constant leaden weight in his chest, a burning in his blood that joins the ever-present sick knot in his guts at being Balem's fucktoy. He begins to wonder if he made the right decision when he pulled himself back from going feral, if surviving is really worth the cost. 

The other servants of Abrasax's household still refuse to speak to him (he's much too far beneath them for that) but he can feel their eyes on him when he passes by in Balem's wake. He can feel the burning cloak of his humiliation grow hotter every time another splice or a household android turns to stare, regarding him with disgust -- or, worse, with pity.

The worst of them is Chicanery Night, the furtive-looking rodent splice who has long served as Balem's majordomo. His looks of utter disdain for Caine are only made worse because Caine can smell the animal segments of Night's genetic makeup, the whiff of rabbit and rat. The wolf is still there in him, battered and abused though it may be, and it scents _prey_ when Night is near. To have such a pale, cringing creature look at him like a soiled, helpless _thing_ digs deep at Caine's already shattered pride. In idle moments Caine sometimes wonders if killing Night would be enough to force Balem into putting him out of his misery -- but he isn't stupid enough to think of such a thing in any serious way.

He settles for returning Night's looks of disgust with glares behind his back, hoping that the rodent knows how thoroughly Caine hates him.

Balem Abrasax certainly knows it. Caine learns that the hard way.

The three of them are in Balem's study -- the master of the house lounging in his elaborate chair, Night reporting obsequiously on business matters from the other side of the desk, and Caine, as always these days, kneeling shirtless on the floor at Balem's side. Night recounts the acquisition of a new group of splices and spares a scornful glance in Caine's direction. Caine matches it with a brief, simmering glare, stopping himself from baring a fang -- and then abruptly freezes as Balem's voice breaks into Night's recitation.

"Up." There's no mistaking who he's speaking to, and Caine curses himself and climbs to his feet, staring pointedly at the desk and bracing himself. 

Caine's long since been robbed of the luxury of adequate clothing, and what little he's wearing is quickly stripped away. Balem doesn't even bother getting up -- he just reaches out and yanks on the chain around Caine's neck until the splice is bent over the desk in front of him. Caine has time for a single deep breath before Balem thrusts two fingers into him and starts working them roughly in and out. 

Balem's voice never loses its note of dutiful boredom. "Mister Night. Please continue."

The rodent clears his throat -- Caine glares up at him long enough to see that he's staring with an expression that is no longer only disgusted -- but he goes on, picking up where he left off while Abrasax continues his assault. 

Caine's blood boils, and he clenches his fists helplessly on the desktop as Balem adds a third finger, stretching him to the point of pain, intentionally twisting and thrusting his hand to make this as physically unpleasant as possible. It's nothing compared to the humiliation, to the utter hopeless degradation at Night watching this happen to him. Watching and getting turned on by it, gods damn him, Caine can _smell_ it from here. Of course he's a perverted little fucker, why is Caine not surprised? He tries to ease the shame and pain by imagining his teeth meeting in Night's jugular, before reminding himself that train of thought will lead him nowhere good.

Balem has four fingers buried deep in Caine's body by now, working away at him with a ruthlessness that is all the more humiliating for how fucking _clinical_ he's being about it. Night goes right on talking, and Caine . . .

Caine gasps and drops his forehead to the tabletop as Balem curls his fingers just _so_ , dragging against his prostate and sending an unexpected jolt straight to his cock. The pain doesn't vanish, but it twists and mingles with other, more overwhelming sensations, and Caine feels himself growing hard as the motion continues. As if he wasn't humiliated enough, and he hates that Abrasax knows by now exactly where and how to touch him to make his body betray him. He squeezes his eyes shut, panting with the rhythm of the fingers working within him, and he begs the gods he has long, long since stopped believing in that Balem will get this over with quickly, will at least give him that much.

Which is, of course, as futile as every other prayer in his misbegotten life. Balem's fingers dig into him _hard_ and stay there, robbing him of breath. Caine makes a choking noise, shaking against the dark wood of the desk, and Balem gestures for Night to shut up. The rodent's been stuttering his way through the last few sentences anyway, and he looks more than happy to stop and stare.

Balem's tone is still even and cool. "Beg for it."

Caine shudders, cursing inwardly. He knows this game by now, knows that Abrasax gets a sick thrill out of making him beg and grovel for something he doesn't want -- and knows if he doesn't do it Balem will make this last all day, or will escalate it in some way Caine doesn't want to contemplate. 

His fingers clasp at nothing. He wishes they were around Balem Abrasax's fucking throat. But he draws a shaking breath and does it, because he has no choice.

"Please, Master --"

Balem cuts him off with a twist of his fingers. "No, not me." His smile is a predatory thing, all teeth and cruelty. "Ask Mister Night." 

Caine chokes and almost slams a fist against the desk, a wave of hot shame sweeping through him and almost wiping out the other sensations. He can't, fuck it, he _can't._

"Go on." Balem's hand moves _just_ enough to make him tremble, not enough to relieve the ache in his groin. "Look him in the eye and ask nicely." 

Caine grits his teeth, tense and aching and so, so fucking ashamed of himself . . . 

And then he raises his head from the desk and meets Night's beady eyes, pushing the words out with an actual physical effort. "Please. Mister Night. May I come?" 

Night looks like he's on the verge of choking -- or possibly spending himself in his trousers -- and he says nothing for a long moment. Savoring it, the bastard. Enjoying the power he holds over the predator sprawled across the desk before him. But Night is obviously under no illusions as to who the real master in the room is, and he looks to Balem for approval before he nods, once, curtly. 

Balem smiles cruelly and presses hard into Caine again. "And what do you say, pet?"

Caine chokes down his rage and his humiliation, dropping his forehead back to the desktop and wishing he could will himself to die. "Thank you, Mister Night."

"Good dog." Balem's fingers start moving again, in that cruelly practiced way, building and building and _building_ the unwanted sensation in Caine's body until he climaxes with a gasp against the desk. He tries to stand, purely on instinct, but Balem catches him by the collar and shoves him back down into the mess. "Now _stay._ " 

Caine obeys, shaking from the orgasm and the shame, feeling hot tears threatening to build up and spill out. It takes all that's left in him to fight them back. Balem straightens and wipes his hand across Caine's back in a gesture of disgust, waving the other hand at Night.

"Mister Night, that will be all."

The other splice swallows convulsively and scurries away -- to beat himself off, no doubt, Caine thinks bitterly. Caine lies slumped against the desk, realizing only in the aftermath that the sharp edge is digging into his hips hard enough to bruise. But he doesn't move, even as Balem goes about some other business behind him, putting some matter of estate to rights. Caine's legs start to burn from the strain, he is filthy and sick with fury and disgrace at his own traitorous body, and still Balem says nothing as he paces towards the door. Caine wonders if he's going to leave him here, and how long it will be if he does, but at the last moment Balem turns and regards him coldly.

"Do not embarrass me by disrespecting my employees again, Caine. Am I understood?"

Caine cringes. "Yes, Master." 

"Good. Now clean up that mess and then meet me in my chambers. You're not finished." 

There are no gods, Caine realizes bleakly. There is only the devil, and his name is Balem Abrasax. "Yes, Master."

Balem smiles. "Good boy." And he turns and breezes out the door. 


	4. Chapter 4

Caine is breaking. He's gone from fighting back -- however ineffectively -- to submitting with ill grace, and desperately hoped he would be able to stop there. But he didn't, he can't, he is beginning to break down even more thoroughly, and he doesn't think he's going to be able to stop it.

The worst part is that it isn't the pain that's doing it. If it was just a matter of being beaten, burned, fucked raw, tortured, Caine thinks he could probably cope. It isn't even the humiliation, though enduring that is a thousand times more torturous than what Balem does to his body. But even that, Caine thinks, probably wouldn't be enough to make him crack open the way he can feel himself beginning to crack open. 

It's the rest of it -- the intermittent reprieves from pain, the caresses when he's bracing for a kick, the honeyed words -- that are doing the job of destroying his spirit. Balem knows just how to drop a bare morsel of comfort in front of him, how to be kind and gentle to him _just_ often enough to keep him waiting for the next time it will come. Abrasax knows, somehow, that no matter what brutality happens between the small kindnesses Caine will still always take the bait.

And he does, hating himself every time. He isn't stupid, he really isn't, and he knows the gentleness is just another tactic. He knows that _belong_ , _Pack_ , _good boy_ are lies, but Caine still can't stop his heart from leaning into the words when he hears them. It's hardwired into him, that longing, that need -- and gods damn Balam Abrasax to twenty hells, he knows that and uses it against him. 

This is not to say that the brutality ever really stops, or that Caine ever expects it to. But he knows Balem is trying to work his way into Caine's head, trying to mold him into accepting the brutality, _wanting_ the debasement, just for the sake of the gentleness.

And what scares Caine to fucking death is that one day, it's going to start working. 

***

One of Balem's favorite toys is a lash of fine monofilaments, capable of laying open skin and flesh with a ruthless, ugly precision. It takes almost no time for the thing to reduce Caine's back to so much shredded meat, while he hangs suspended, spread-eagled by the antigrav shackles around his wrists and ankles. There's no leverage, no way to evade the blows -- all he can do is hang there and scream his throat raw while Balem takes his time working him over. The pain is transcendent, a red, vicious, living thing that coils around his limbs and his bleeding torso, constricting his lungs and running through his veins. It persists even as Balem finally grows bored with beating him and sets the whip aside; the slightest air current makes his raw flesh scream with agony. Left alone, Caine knows he'd be dead before the day was out. He knows, too, that Balem will never be merciful enough to leave him alone.

He tries uselessly to shift his weight, to take some of the strain off his cramping arm muscles, but all it gets him is a fresh wave of pain that leaves him dizzy and sends a black wash over his vision. Caine pants through gritted teeth, dropping his head down between his shoulders and waiting to see how Balem will fuck him this time. 

But, to his surprise, Balem seems content to skip that part of the encounter. He just walks a slow circle around Caine, fingers to his lips, admiring his handiwork. When he finally does move closer, all he does is run his fingers gently through Caine's hair, caressing him. His voice is a sweet, intimate murmur. 

"You are such a good little pet, aren't you?" He moves away, comes back with a canister of clear fluid and lifts it to Caine's lips. "Drink." 

Caine does so automatically, too well-conditioned not to do as Abrasax says -- but it's just water, blessedly cool and free from tampering. He swallows greedily until Abrasax pulls it away, going back to petting him while he reaches for a dermal regeneration canister. "Such a good boy."

The spray is shockingly cold at first, so cold it hurts, but it quickly melts away to a cooling numbness as the tech goes to work rebuilding his shattered flesh, knitting his wounds. The pain begins, blessedly, to ebb, and Caine can't help slumping in undisguised relief. Abrasax smiles and cradles Caine's cheek in his palm. "You're learning, aren't you? I knew you would."

Caine doesn't know what to say to that -- what Balem wants to hear -- but he settles for leaning his head into the touch, hoping that's the right response. Hoping that will make this stop for now. 

It seems to satisfy Balem, who keeps up the caresses and the murmuring niceties while he oversees the healing of Caine's wounds. The regenerator leaves new flesh that is still oversensitive, nerves and skin that are tender as an infant's until more time has passed, but today Balem doesn't seem interested in abusing that fact. Caine is still shaky and weak from the aftermath of pain and the loss of blood, but he can feel himself rallying a little. 

Balem finally nods with a contented noise and lifts Caine's chin, forcing him to meet Balem's eyes. It makes Caine cringe, inwardly and outwardly, but he doesn't pull away. Balem smiles.

"You are learning. I think it's time you have a reward." 

He steps away and comes back with a slender disc of filigreed metal, circuitry gleaming dully across its surface. He fits it to Caine's temple, where it nestles warm as a living thing. 

Caine watches Balem with a sudden flush of fear; he has no idea what the thing is, what it will do, how to resist it . . .

Balem makes a calming noise, stroking his newly-healed shoulders and his neck. "Hush, pet." A touch to the circuitry sends the thing humming and buzzing, and Caine . . .

Caine closes his eyes and gasps as warm, gentle sensation sweeps through him. His muscles relax of their own accord, and it feels _indescribably good_ , like all the small handful of best memories Caine possesses have come to thrumming life in his bones. 

He never thought he would feel anything so good again, and it steals his breath and robs him of his ability to think, to do anything but _feel_. Balem's voice barely registers as he leaves the room.

"That's it, Caine. Just enjoy yourself, there's a good boy."

And he does, good suns and stars he does. He has no choice and wouldn't make one even if he had -- he has been so hurt for so long that this is paradise, and he basks in it with his whole being, a mindless creature leaning into the warmth of an endless summer day.

He's so caught in the blessed relief that he doesn't notice the change in sensation at first; it creeps up like a tide, and he's already half-hard by the time he realizes what's happening, that the pleasure is no longer relaxing but stimulating. But it's still gentle, so incredibly gentle, and there is no pressure, no expectations on him, no other person forcing it out of him, it just feels _good_. Caine is so tired of fighting, he can't fight this, he just rides it out as the feeling of warmth and fullness and gentleness builds to a crescendo. 

The first orgasm is the most intense and pleasureable he's ever experienced, nothing like the reluctant shameful horrors Balem has wrung out of him for months, nothing even like he pushed himself to reach with his few prior partners. He actually _wants_ this, and he lets it wash over him and cradle him and erase him. He's trembling when he comes down, expecting the goodness to vanish when he does -- but it doesn't. The disc keeps right on humming at his temple, sending sensation coursing through him. 

He leans into the feeling, into _not hurting_ , not thinking, not _being_. 

The second time he comes is less intense than the first, but no less good. There's the slightest twinge from the muscles in his arms afterwards, a reminder he's still bound and recovering from what happened earlier, but he's still suffused in feeling from the object, and he's not aware enough to worry.

The third time is brief and more forced than the others, and something cold and frightful starts to coil in his chest when the thing at his temple still doesn't stop. He tries, experimentally, to resist it, and finds that it makes no difference. The stimulation just goes on.

And on.

And on. 

And _on_ , until he's aching and empty and utterly exhausted, and still it doesn't stop. He loses count of how many times he comes, he starts to sob somewhere along the way as the sensation ceases to be pleasure and just becomes _too much_. Every nerve in his body is pushed past the brink of what it can bear and _it still doesn't stop_. Caine pants, writhes, whimpers, suffers, loses all track of time. 

He barely registers Balem's footsteps until the man is at his side, and once he does he starts to beg in a broken rasp and can't make himself shut up. "Makeitstop, makeitstop, please . . ."

Balem chuckles indulgently and touches his fingers to the disc, ceasing the waves of stimulation so suddenly that the absence itself is a kind of pain. Cain groans and falls limp, his grip on consciousness momentarily in jeopardy. He can't even muster the ability to hate the man before him, except distantly. 

"What do you say?" Abrasax runs his hand up Caine's back, and the sensation crackles painfully through his overworked nerves.

Caine knows what's expected of him, but the _Thank you, Master_ dies on his lips; he's too exhausted to dredge up anything but honesty. His mouth is desert-dry and he has to force the words out in a parched, shaking whisper. " Why won't you just kill me?"

He can't even flinch, just hangs in his bonds and waits for the inevitable fury for daring to speak thus -- but Balem just makes a thoughtful noise, stroking his back again and again and watching him shudder weakly in response. "Ask me nicely, pet." His voice is sweetly chiding, almost playful.

Caine goes still in every muscle, cold fear warring in his chest with something uglier and more terrible.

Hope.

Does he want that, truly? Does he dare?

If the alternative is more of this, more of Balem's attentions, then yes.

Caine closes his eyes, tries weakly to clench his fists in his bindings. "Please. Please just let me die." And then, belatedly realizing his error: "Master. _Please._ " 

Balem's hand drifts up to run through Caine's hair. Gentle, so very gentle. He tilts Caine's chin up with the other hand, so the splice can see his expression -- tolerant and amused, entertaining such a silly request from his little toy dog. 

Caine hold his breath as the hand in his hair drifts towards the device at his temple. 

Balem's expression never changes. "No."

And he switches the machine back on.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note that the tags/triggers have changed and this chapter is lighter on the physical triggers but bigger on the mindfuckery, so if you happen to be particularly sensitive to that, please take care.

Seraphi Abrasax is the most beautiful old woman Caine has ever seen. "Old" is not quite accurate; compared to him, she's damn near deathless, so old that age is meaningless, but so are most of the Entitled. What he means by the thought is that she wears the appearance of age beautifully -- her skin like finely wrinkled silk, her long waves of silver hair artfully coiffed. Even if Caine's not drawn to anyone in the most basic physical sense, he can appreciate beauty, and he appreciates Seraphi's.

The fact that she damn near reeks of disgust and fury for Balem Abrasax may, admittedly, be clouding his judgment. 

He's given to understand that a physical meeting between mother and son is a rarity; the alcazar has been a hive of frenetic activity for a week leading up to her arrival, and Balem's attention has been blessedly on the preparations more than on Caine. It doesn't take him long to figure out why.

Seraphi is the picture of poised civility when she steps out of her shuttle in a cloud of flowing silks and jewels. She greets her son with a brush of her lips to his cheek and words that are sweetly pitched, but Caine can _smell_ the quiet fury and scorn simmering beneath the surface. He imagines Balem isn't blind to it, because beneath his usual air of haughty propriety, the heir of house Abrasax is almost comically -- if begrudgingly -- deferential to its Sovereign. 

There's a story there, probably several millennia worth of stories to be more accurate, but Caine doesn't know and doesn't care what's caused the strain between the two Entitled. All he cares about is the tension it breeds in the here and now, the building sense of threat that slowly grows the longer Seraphi is in Balem's house. That's what Caine is keeping an eye on -- fanatically careful not to appear as if he's taking an untoward notice in Balem's affairs, of course.

Caine is the repository of all Balem Abrasax's fury and displeasure. He's more than aware that when that storm breaks, he's going to be the one who suffers the violent consequences Balem would never dare visit on a real human being.

So while he kneels at Balem's side, eyes on the floor, he silently observes both Queen and heir. The two of them spend the day cloistered in Balem's study, discussing their empire -- Caine isn't interested in the details, only the cauldron of emotions the details stir up. He gathers Seraphi is disappointed in Balem's management of some planet, some harvest, some thing so far beyond the small wretched creature that is Caine Wise that he doesn't bother paying attention. It's the disappointment that is the crux of it all, the problem Balem has brought his mother here to try and smooth over. The younger Abrasax bends all his considerable skill at manipulation to that task, though he's obviously only partly successful. 

The only time he takes any notice of Caine is when -- in the midst of some attempt to seem poised and perfectly in control of everything his queenly mother has placed in his hands -- Balem gestures offhandedly at his slave in a way Caine has learned means _Come here and service me._ Caine has barely shifted position when Seraphi interrupts, sharp displeasure in her tone.

"Don't be childish, Balem, it's beneath you," She snaps, never even looking in Caine's direction. "I expect that kind of thing from _Titus_. I expect far better from you." 

Balem barely flinches, just waves for Caine to retake his spot. "Of course, Mother. Forgive me."

Caine has never seen anyone command Balem Abrasax so utterly. It's almost terrifying. 

After that, Balem ignores him. By the time supper ends that evening, Caine is cringing inwardly, knowing that soon enough Balem is going to make him pay for every blow Seraphi has dealt his pride in the course of the day. 

Seraphi rises from the table with an elegant motion, gesturing away her attendants and favoring her son with a brief, cold smile. "Balem. I wish you good evening."

"Good evening, Mother." Balem rises from his place, bowing low, and artfully hesitates before adding "Shall I . . . ?" 

Caine doesn't know what the offer is supposed to be -- rather, he doesn't care to think too hard on what it is -- but Seraphi laughs like bells and shakes her head. "No, dear, I think not." Her own pause is just as artful, the pitch of her head and the tone of her voice are perfect in their air of casual command. "I'll take your splice with me, though."

It is not in any way a request, and Caine feels something cold coiling in his stomach. Balem goes very, very still, only the tightening of his jaw betraying the fury under his surface. The two Entitled stare at each other like duelists, and Caine is not sure for a moment that the storm isn't going to break right here and now. 

At last, however, Balem concedes and unbends, returns to his seat and snaps his fingers impatiently at Caine. "Of course, Your Majesty. Enjoy." 

Seraphi's only answer is a toss of her silver head, and she barely waits for Caine to climb to his feet before she sweeps out of the dining room.

Caine has no choice but to follow, trailing on her heels like a dog. The cold in his stomach has climbed into his chest, and he isn't sure he has a name for the feelings that go with it.

Except for fear. He knows fear very well by now. Balem is inventive in his cruelty, but after all this time he's at least become something of a known quantity. Seraphi is an unknown, and Caine has no notion of what to expect from her or how to try and protect himself from her. 

He doesn't want to entertain the possibilities, but he can't help himself; the months have forced him into the habit of calculating the risks of pain and humiliation. And he has nothing else with which to occupy his thoughts, because Seraphi doesn't so much as look at him as she enters her bedchamber. She just snaps her fingers and points at the rug, exactly as she would with a terrier, and Caine sinks to his knees without a word. He can't even bring himself to be bothered by the gesture, not anymore.

Seraphi breezes into the adjoining bath suite, and Caine catches the scents of bathwater and cleansers, the hum of servitor androids attending to the Queen. He does nothing but stare at the rug and try to crush the faint, futile hope that what she wants of him might at least be less painful than what her son usually demands. That kind of hope will lead him nowhere, it will only make the inevitable more unbearable, and so he does his best to school his thoughts and his face to careful stillness.

He must not be as successful as he thinks he is. When Seraphi emerges, wrapped in a long silken robe, she spares him only the briefest glance before she laughs mirthlessly. "Oh, look at you. You needn't worry, splice." The woman stretches, languid as a cat, her long silver hair rippling like water. 

Caine says nothing, not sure whether he's relieved by the words; he can't tell if they're a trap, as they would be from Balem, but her tone makes it clear she is not really having a conversation with him. Why should she? 

Seraphi slips into bed with a smirk that is pure Abrasax. "I only want to remind my spoiled tyrant of a son of his place. I don't actually _want_ you." 

Caine doesn't know why those words cut him as deeply as they do, but all he does is lower his head. Bare acknowledgment of the rightness of her statement. Of course she doesn't want him. Why should anyone?

Seraphi smiles and curls herself into the bedclothes, closing her eyes. "But perhaps I'll keep you anyway." She murmurs. And then, after a moment's silence, "Put out the lights, splice, and watch the door." 

"Yes, Your Majesty." Caine does both, and spends the night in the darkness, listening to Seraphi Abrasax breathe and trying very, very hard not to dwell on the cruel temptation of that _perhaps_. 

For the next two days, things follow the same pattern. Caine keeps his place at Balem's side, silently listening to the two Abrasaxes working out their differences -- with questionable success, for though the Queen seems to warm to her son as the days pass, she also seems disinclined to entirely withdraw her displeasure. 

And she also takes the opportunity, every night, to remove her son's splice from his possession. 

Caine is under no illusions; the Queen doesn't care any more about him than she does one of her hairpins, has in fact not said more than a word or two to him since the first night. She's just teaching Balem a lesson by taking away his toys. 

But it's still the longest he's gone without being raped or beaten since he came here, so he isn't going to complain. He faces the dawn of the Queen's departure day with a sinking feeling in his guts, knowing that with her gone Balem is going to make sure he suffers double for the brief reprieve. 

As usual, the Queen takes no notice of him as she rises and dresses; he may as well be furniture to her. Perhaps not even that much; furniture has a use.

He will never understand what possesses him to do it, but he hesitates for the barest moment when she gestures for him to rise and follow her. He doesn't look up at her -- he wouldn't dare -- and he barely raises his voice. "Majesty. Please. Take me with you." 

She raises one perfect eyebrow, looking at him for the first time that morning . . . and says nothing, merely gestures again for him to rise and follow her.

Which he does, with his heart leaden within him. He doesn't know what he was expecting, why he was naive enough to expect anything other than what he got. 

He has known for months that he's never going to get away from here. It was stupid to hope otherwise.

He returns to Balem's side and tries to think of nothing while the shuttle is made ready and the social obligations of a royal sendoff are fulfilled. These things have nothing to do with him. The Queen and the world she's returning to have nothing to do with him. Caine Wise's world is, now and forever, very small and very painful and completely without exit. He'd better get used to that. 

At last the shuttle lifts off with a breath of warm wind and the thrum of engines, and Balem turns on his heel and stalks into the house. Caine follows, half-expecting that his master will turn on him immediately -- but apparently, Balem has taken some of his mother's stern warnings to heart. He buries himself behind his desk, bent over sheaves and communiques. Caine doesn't take it as an encouraging sign; the longer the inevitable is delayed, the worse it's going to be when . . .

A timid knock at the door, and Chicanery Night slips into the room, looking ill and terrified. Balem looks up at the rodent splice with a burning expression that suggests he is going to make the majordomo regret the interruption. "Well?"

"Your Highness . . ." Night holds out a sheaf with a familiar sigil at the top. Caine's breath catches, and Night swallows convulsively. "Your Highness, the Legion has recalled its personnel. Their shuttle will retrieve him by end-of-day tomorrow." 

Balem stares. Caine stares, so overwhelmed with shock that he almost forgets himself and _says_ something. Night quivers like an actual rabbit. 

Seconds tick by, and Balem surges to his feet and seizes Caine's collar in his grasp, nearly-strangling him as he yanks him to his feet and drags him out of the room towards one of the half-dozen chambers of horrors Caine has come to know too well. 

Caine isn't sure if Balem intends to kill him, or just to get the very last of his money's worth out of him in blood and sex before he sends him back to the Legion. 

_Either way,_ Caine thinks -- and he finds himself growing hysterical with hope despite his best effort to crush it, even as Balem flings him to the floor and strips off his clothing, even as the Entitled simultaneously thrusts his fingers into him and smashes his face against the concrete.

_Either way._

***

Three days after that he's laying in his bunk on a Legion cruiser bound outward towards Servanna, feeling the humming of the ship around him and surrounded by the breathing and shifting and scents of a whole company of Legionnaires. It's dark, and as silent as a Legion ship can ever be, and he's doing his damnedest not to break down sobbing right in the midst of all of them.

 _It's over, it's over, it's over_ , he's been telling himself that all day and into the night while he's numbly nodded at whatever he's told and gone wherever he's directed. Acting on complete autopilot, speaking only when spoken to and mostly not even speaking then.

Balem's servitors had to half-drown him in Regen-X to make him fit for return to the Legion -- he can still feel the slick, oozing touch of it across his skin, stealing every bruise and mark and scar except the brand that shows what he is. Every physical trace of what happened. 

He could live with that. Even be grateful for that, in a sick way. But the last part . . .

Caine chokes on bile and presses the heels of his hands into his closed eyes. 

Night supervised the last part, the medical androids seizing Caine and strapping him to the table, the blinding white light and the whirring of lasers and nanotech. _Cortical inhibition_ , the rodent had called it, and Caine had thought he knew what it meant. He'd thought they were deleting his memory, erasing the last proof, and he'd fought and cursed and struggled as he hadn't dared to do in months.

Now he wishes he'd been right. He should have known Balem wouldn't be that merciful. 

Caine remembers, all right. Caine remembers in perfect detail every touch, every blow, every humiliation.

And he can't make himself say a godsdammned word about it. 

He's tried, over and over again, in a hundred different ways to a dozen different superior officers. And the words catch and snarl like barbed wire in his brain, until all he can finally manage is lies that sound like truths. _Nothing to report_. _Uneventful._ _As expected, Sirs._

The truth is locked up inside him, one last thing Balem Abrasax stole. Someone else might wonder why Balem would bother, when nobody in the galaxy would do anything about it even if Caine _did_ tell them what happened. But Caine doesn't have to wonder; he knows Balem well enough to know his reason.

He did it to mark him. To make him be Balem's good dog, suffering and silent, even worlds away. Caine has no idea how he's going to live with that. But he has to, somehow. Balem made sure he had no choice.

 _It's over, it's over, it's over._ Caine repeats it and repeats it and repeats it.

He hopes eventually it's going to start sounding like the truth.


	6. Chapter 6

The war in the Servanna system lasts three long, bloody years -- raging on the ground and across the spaces between the system's five planets -- and Caine Wise throws himself into it with a ferocious abandon. He takes risks that even most Legionnaires deem too great, suffers wounds more than once, and nobody is more surprised than Caine when the dust clears and he's among the forty percent of his battalion who are still standing. 

Dumb luck, most of his superiors say. And then, grudgingly, when another war comes and goes and Wise still isn't dead, they start to admit that maybe there's some skill behind the foolhardy bravado of youth. He's a runt with a chip on his shoulder, they say, pushing himself to do things no lycantant with a Pack would risk doing to prove to the universe that he's worth noticing.

None of them know the truth; that stays locked up inside him, bound up in a surgical silence that only grows deeper with passing time. 

Nobody but Caine knows that he really, honestly _does not give a fuck_ if he lives or dies. He's pretty sure nothing can happen in battle that will be worse than what he already lived through. In his worst moments, he figures he'll be lucky to die out there.

That at least would relieve him of the burden of his silence. 

Halfway through his third tour of duty, he catches the eye of a minor officer who mentions to some other equally minor officer that Caine Wise, if he weren't such a genetically sub-par specimen, would have exactly the right attitude for the Skyjackers.

It's another year after that until his name works its way across the right desk, and the Skyjackers come looking for him. 

He thinks it's a joke, at first. The Skyjackers take the best of the Legion's best; they don't take Caine Wise. And then, once they convince him it's an honor and not a cruel charade, he still almost turns them down. They assume he's being humble; he doesn't bother telling them otherwise. 

He doesn't bother trying to explain to them that having something to actually live for is more frightening than dying. 

Caine takes them up on the offer, in the end. All it takes is Stinger Apini giving him a twenty-second taste of a full immersion flight sim, and Caine signs every damn thing they put in front of him. 

He's scarred-up and burdened and shut off from the world, but not enough to say _no_ to that feeling. 

And it's that feeling, in the end, that starts to finally relieve some of the pressure his unspeakable memories have been building up within him since the day he left Balem's alcazar. The wings save him; they give him speed and freedom and a way out of almost anything. They give him a place in the ranks with others who, like him, are just a little too fearless for normal company. 

He's not sure he's happy, exactly. But he has people worth being loyal to, a job worth doing, and sometimes three or even four weeks will go by without one of the memories managing to claw its way into his nightmares. It's a hell of a lot closer to happiness than he ever expected someone like him would get, and he seizes it with the ferocious abandon he once gave to attempting suicide-by-war-zone. He starts to think, once in a while, that he might even have a good life ahead of him.

That lasts until Seraphi Abrasax dies.

It's impossible not to hear about it when she does -- even in a universe as vast and violent as this one, Queens are not murdered in cold blood every day -- and Caine resolutely does his best not to let it matter. He carefully schools himself not to flinch when he hears the name _Abrasax_ (and worse, the name _Balem Abrasax_ , which is on every newscaster's lips). He averts his eyes from the portraits of Her Majesty that spring up like so many funereal blossoms. 

He's a Skyjacker, one of the Legion's best and brightest, he is not the shuddering, broken boy who knelt before a Queen and asked the impossible. Even if she may have granted it to him -- from afar, of course, so as not to seem too involved -- it doesn't matter. He can't let it matter. Caine's spent too much time and blood and violence trying to build a wall between himself and that place he carries in his nightmares. If he dwells overlong on anything to do with the House of Abrasax he knows that wall is going to crack, and he won't even be able to tell anyone why he's lost his mind.

He almost makes it, too. Maybe he would have, if he'd stayed a common soldier. But he is a Skyjacker, one of the best and brightest, and only the best and brightest will do to escort the cortege of a Queen. They ship out for Ores with brand-new dress uniforms, trimmed in mourning for the occasion. Caine spends all his spare energy bent on the single task of keeping himself in check, shoving down the memories into the dark corners they usually haunt; it makes him more silent even than usual, more tense and snappish. Stinger notices, and tries to ask; but Caine brushes it off. _Just not fond of Ores, sir_ and _Plus, I've always hated funerals_. 

Stinger laughs and claps his shoulder. Promises R&R for the whole unit of them when the funeral is over, and they'll raise a glass to the old Queen and the new King. Caine is almost proud of himself for managing not to be sick on Stinger's boots. 

On Ores they're drilled several times on the proper procedure for the funeral procession; it wouldn't do to have anything mar the solemn occasion, especially the misstep of a Splice (which is all they are, at the end of the day, when you strip away the boots and the uniforms and the wings. Just splices. Not really humans).

Caine stands still and solemn in his dress blacks, eyes forward, willing his mind to stay blank. He does not think about the past, about Seraphi's silver hair like falling water, about saving orders that could not have been coincidence, about any of the scars he does not bear or any of the things he cannot say. He's a good soldier by now, Caine Wise is. He's the Legion's good dog.

And then he smells it: dry, astringent, almost medical, the smell of danger and cruelty. His stomach turns over and he goes unnaturally still, tracking the scent and the sound of footsteps that he has never, ever stopped knowing down in his bones. There must be a thousand people in the hall, rehearsing tomorrow's solemnities, and Caine is conscious of only one of them. 

_There_ , and then _there_ , and Balem is coming closer; Caine feels every hair on his back stand up in terror as that scent draws near. His system surges with fight-or-flight, the oldest instinct there is. Bile rises at the back of his throat as he remembers the last time he stood before Balem Abrasax and had to make that choice.

The wall crumbles, and he is no longer the good soldier he's fought so hard to become. He is no longer aware of Stinger at his elbow trying to ask him what's wrong. He's no longer even sure he's Caine Wise.

He's an animal, trapped and afraid and all too cognizant of what will happen to him if he doesn't choose _fight_. 

Balem takes one more step, into Caine's field of vision, and that's all it takes. The sight of him, the smell, the sound of his boots on the stone, it's all too much, and Caine burns with fury even as part of him quakes in terror. The man hesitates, torn between the two emotions, and the wolf takes over like it begged to so long ago.

Caine uncoils with a fluid animal grace and springs at Balem, wings unfurled, snarling like a beast out of hell. 

He's bigger than Balem Abrasax, and stronger, and his momentum bears the two of them to the ground before anyone can reach out to try and stop him. There's no thought, no reasoning, there is only sensation, glimpses of awareness -- the flash of terror in Balem's eyes, the ineffective way he reaches to shove Caine off him. The smell of fear -- not Caine's this time, finally not Caine's, his rage has driven it out -- and the surge of raw _triumph_ when he knows Abrasax recognizes the creature attacking him. 

Caine's lips draw back on a snarl and then his fangs are deep, deep in Balem Abrasax's throat, worrying the flesh and rending the muscle, tearing away the scream before Balem can finish making it. 

_Good_ , Caine thinks, tasting Balem's lifesblood on his tongue and finding it sweeter than he imagined, he will take the voice before he takes the life. They'll kill him for it in the worst way they can find to do it, he knows that even now.

But he will have had his justice, exacted in blood and terror and a stolen voice. 

It will be enough. 

 

**End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who left comments and kudos for this. I haven't written anything in a long time and I've definitely never written anything this intense and explicit; this story really felt like it took on a life of its own, and your feedback helped me ride out the momentum of writing it.
> 
> I'm already in love with what this fledgling fandom is bringing into being, and it's really awesome to be a little part of that. You are all magical space princesses and/or space werewolves. Never change. <3 
> 
> (And yeah, there will almost certainly be fix-it fic coming after this, once I have recovered from cranking this thing out like some kind of goddamn machine).


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